Page 106 of Single Mom's Daddies
A second rounds the corner, knife drawn.
I don’t bother shooting. I meet him in the middle.
He lunges—fast, poorly trained. I sidestep, grab his arm mid-swing, and use his momentum to drive him straight into the brick wall. His skull hits with a satisfying crack, and his body goes limp before he slides to the ground.
“Roman!” The voice comes from behind.
I turn sharply. Ruger. Of all people.
He’s ducked behind a stone planter, Glock raised, scanning the chaos. His coat’s smeared with dirt, his cheek bloodied. He’s not wearing a vest. Poor planning.
“Why the hell are you still here?” I growl, dragging him upright by his lapel.
“I got pinned down when it started.”
Then I see it—one of Costello’s men, perched in the shadows behind the greenhouse, rifle aimed directly at Ruger’s back.
I shove Ruger aside and throw myself into the shot. The bullet clips my arm, ripping through flesh just above the bicep. I don’t stop. I fire back and hit the shooter center mass. He stumbles once, then falls. His eyes go glassy in a blink.
Ruger stares at me, stunned. “Why the hell would you?—”
“Getinside,” I snap, pressing a hand to the bleeding wound. “This is our fight.”
“But you?—”
“I said go!”
He runs.
I don’t wait for thanks. I turn back toward the blaze at the east entrance, blood dripping from my sleeve, rage boiling in my chest.
This is my home. My people. And if Costello thought we’d lie down quietly, he’s about to learn how wrong he is.
I don’t stop moving. The compound is a goddamn war zone. Glass crunches under my boots as I cut through the north hallway, ducking low behind a half-splintered side table. One of the bastards must’ve come in through the formal dining room—there’s shattered crystal and an overturned chair bleeding stuffing across the rug.
More gunfire crackles from somewhere deeper inside. A door slams. A voice yells. I move faster.
I hear Nik before I see him—his laughter, sharp and unhinged, echoing down the corridor as someone screams. Then a body thuds against plaster, and a man comes stumbling into my line of sight.
He’s wearing black. No insignia. Just a ski mask and Kevlar. He doesn’t see me in time.
The bullet punches into his gut. He drops, gasping, crawling for the pistol he fumbled across the floor. I step on his wrist,savoring the crackle of small bones. He doesn’t even scream. Merely jerks once and goes still.
Nikolai rounds the corner behind me, breathing hard, blood spattered across his jaw and collar. “Got two by the servant’s stairs. One’s still twitching. I’ll fix it.”
“More coming in from the back,” I grunt. “They knew the layout.”
He nods grimly. “They’ve got someone feeding them intel.”
A door bursts open behind us, and we both swing around, guns aimed high. But it’s Victor. “Ruger’s in the library,” he barks. “Wounded. He’ll be fine.”
“Shit,” I hiss, turning fast back toward the danger. “Anyone else?”
“No clue. Ruger barricaded himself behind the file cabinets. I took out two guys before they got to him. He hit a few while I was there. But they’re coming in waves. Well-armed. Prepared.”
“Go,” I snap. “Get Ruger out. He’s a bastard, but he’s not dying in my house.”
Victor doesn’t argue.
